


love is not a victory march

by comewanderwithme



Series: the lord of song [1]
Category: The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Class Differences, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/F, Heroin, Love Stories, Poverty, in my own way, some gay shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 22:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13199748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comewanderwithme/pseuds/comewanderwithme
Summary: Clarke's a stressed, depressed mess for her finals, but the girl battles through it against all odds.





	love is not a victory march

Clarke loathes these places. 

It's a terrible attitude to have, considering the good they do. They’re centers of healing in a world corrupted with ills. All about overcoming obstacles via hard work and positivity, and they're always an important step for people to take in their recovery. 

But still. 

It's not a sentiment she's likely to share with anyone else; that with every new visitor's pass that gets wrapped around her neck, there comes the sinking feeling that the only way her tour of them will come to a close is with a final stop at a graveyard.

It's a thought that makes her chest want to cave in on itself, so she shoves it away.

The landscape here is nice; beautiful green grass sprawling out into the thickets of spruce and ash trees on all sides of the property. There's a basketball hoop out in front by the parking lot where the patients (patients, they're patients, not inmates) can play ball, and even a volleyball net with a sandpit, and she knows just by looking at it that Kane has pulled a couple strings to get Lexa placed here. It's upscale. The architecture is of the last decade, and it's well kept. It's a hell of a lot better than probably 90 percent of the places that Lexa's called home in her life, so Clarke shouldn't complain. 

Even the food is edible, though Clarke hasn’t been able to touch much of it. It’s warm but overcast outside, and every now and then the sun peeks through the clouds to shine light on the picnic table they’re sharing for a blessed minute or so, just before being swallowed back up by the gloom.

She hates that it feels fitting. It does.

"Have you talked to Anya?" Clarke asks, pushing around some syrupy peaches on her plate. Maybe not the easiest starting topic, but she’s at a loss of what to say. She’s never felt that with Lexa before, and they never mastered the art of small talk.

Lexa gives no response at first, eyes still glued to the table. Her hands are folded firmly in her lap, and Clarke doesn’t need to see them to know that they haven't stilled once in the ten minutes since Lexa sat down across from her. Her worn Distillers tee hangs limply across her shoulders, and the gray sweats she wears are rolled to prevent them from sliding off her slim hips. Lexa’s always been slight, a tall willowy frame that had never been able to take on muscle quite the way she would’ve liked in high school. 

It hadn’t mattered to Clarke at the time (Lexa was entirely breathtaking, in any size, shape or permutation), but looking at the wasted, pale form of the girl in front of her, she finds herself searching for some sign, a signal, a flicker of strength (physical or otherwise) and despairing when she sees none. Lexa’s eyes, her posture, her mouth; they’re sad, slumped and drawn. Everything about her radiates defeat, and for a moment all Clarke wants to do is fling herself across the table, wrap her up in her arms, hold her tight enough to transfer whatever fleeting ounce of fortitude she might still possess in her own exhausted body to Lexa’s, but she knows.

She knows.

Lexa wouldn’t want that. 

The perfunctory hug they shared at intake was awkward enough to make Clarke’s skin itch, and she can’t imagine it felt any better on Lexa’s end. It’s awful, the way comfort and ease between two people can deteriorate so quickly. Clarke knows she feels the sting of it more keenly than someone like Lexa, who had always shied away from affection.

She supposes it’s even harder to take now; from someone whose heart she broke, someone she didn’t want--

“She won’t take my calls.”

Clarke tries to look like it’s news, though it’s not surprising to her in the least. They’re not related by blood, but by god is stubbornness a familial trait. 

“Give her time, Lexa. You know she’ll come around.”

Lexa’s shoulder is being jostled now from the force of her bouncing knee. She shakes her head.

“I’m not sure I want her to,” she says, her voice the only steady thing about her. “It’s not as though I deserve it.

"You're her sister."

Lexa scoffs wetly and swallows. “Her sister that robbed her blind and put her girlfriend through a whole world of hurt. I’m lucky to have her silence. She could put me in prison.”

“Anya wouldn’t do that,” Clarke insists. “You’re family.”

“I don’t have a family,” she says, and before Clarke can even absorb that statement long enough to counter it and tell Lexa that it is plain bullshit and they both know it, Lexa continues. “I was never meant to. You of all people should know that. I’m nothing. To nobody. And that is how it should be.”

Clarke sits with that for a moment longer than she really needs to, the last pieces of her that felt whole before coming here starting to loosen and pull apart. When she finds her voice she knows that even with her eyes averted Lexa will be able to tell she’s crying.

“You really believe that?”

Because of course, of course, if things got bad enough that Lexa was using again then her mental state would be all kinds of fucked up. But to hear just how little hope she has for herself, has never had for herself-- well it cracks something at Clarke’s very foundation. 

“I keep proving it.”

Lexa sounds so small. Clarke aches for the girl--for the woman--who projected size and presence despite her softness.

“You’re sick, you are not nothing. Listen, Lexa, I know every part of your brain is screaming that at you right now but that’s because you’re sick, okay?”

“I’m a junkie.”

“And being here is gonna help change that. You just-- you have to be strong.”

“I’m tired of being strong.”

“Hey,” Clarke says, her back straight for the first time today. “You are not the only one who’s fighting here. Do you think I’m not tired? I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep since I got that phone call from Anya. This semester is kicking my ass, most of my mentors think I’m a cheap slut who they can bribe with high marks, and the ones that don’t? Well they hate me for it. I can’t tell which end is up most days. My mom’s fucked off to be with her new Prince Charming, my family is disappearing, and now to top it all off, I have to deal with all of this without my best friend. Because she’s decided it’s too hard to give a shit about whether she lives or dies, let alone to care about anyone else.”

That earns her eye contact at least, before Lexa swallows and speaks. 

“I’ve never stopped caring about you.”

For a second, Clarke’s sure that’s all she’s going to get. The grip she’s got on her plastic fork is starting to cut into the sides of her fingers, so she lets it drop and bites back either a sigh or a scream. 

“I tried,” Lexa says after another breath. “I wanted to give you space to forget about it. And I did the breaking between us, so I didn’t deserve to lean on you when I felt things getting bad again.”

She looks genuine and sad, trying to explain herself; her actions. She’s probably been doing a lot of that in the past two weeks. And Clarke is ashamed of her quick temper in the face of it. 

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to--to give you grief, or make you feel guilty for anything. Shit.”

“It’s fine, Clarke.”

Clarke pushes her plate of food away from her; some kind of chicken sandwich that smelled appetizing while she was waiting in line but now only makes her stomach roil. Lexa’s is clear, and most of their time was spent with Clarke watching her eat it all in silence. 

“Why did you come?”

Lexa asks the question as gently as she can, it’s clear. It’s been hanging over both of their heads since the receptionist at the call desk had let Clarke in the door with no trouble. She’d showed up without preplanning, without talking to anyone, figuring that whoever dared to get in her way would regret it. Lexa included. Her worry was ill-founded however. Whether it be Kane’s name or their reaction upon first seeing on another (gratitude. sorrow. heartbreak. relief.), it was more than enough to warrant Clarke getting added to the list.

Still, Clarke can’t swallow it easily.

“Well the last time I saw you, you were unconscious in a hospital bed. You wouldn’t let me come after you woke up, and if that was your way of telling me to fuck off, then I’m sorry. But I had to get that image out of my head.”

“And you’re saying this is better?”

Clarke shakes her head. “You didn’t see yourself. You looked dead already.”

Lexa takes that without much of a reaction. She reaches down to sort a cigarette from the pack in her pocket and lights it before it’s even in her mouth. Nearly half the stick is turned to ash after her first drag, but Clarke is only grateful that the shaking has stopped as Lexa exhales. 

“I’m sorry. About the hospital, I was very overwhelmed. I didn’t want anyone to see me like that. If I were in my right state of mind, I would have appreciated the visit.”

And christ, that stings, even though it’s obviously said without any kind of intent. It wasn’t all that long ago that Clarke was her sole emergency contact, her number one on speed dial, her goddamn other half. And they’d fallen in lust, in love sure, but it was deeper than that, even. Since high school they’d been inseparable, clinging together to endure every bit of shit that life was cocking back to throw at them. 

They were family. 

Now Clarke is someone she would have ‘appreciated a visit’ from. A passing thought, one that was easily brushed off and tucked away, if the lack of communication on Lexa’s part since she’s been here is any indication. There’s a familiar wave of furious heartbreak that washes over her but she lets it ebb away. She doesn’t know how to be angry with the one person she craves more than anything else on earth, and she’s tired of trying to figure it out. All she’s managed to get a handle on is being grateful that Lexa’s still here to be upset with.

Clarke smiles, trying to temper everything that she’s feeling and knowing she’s doing a poor job of it. She’s about to say something reassuring--as reassuring as she can manage with her throat all choked up with the damn tears that won’t stop coming--when the PA system set up throughout the facility crackles to life, a woman’s craggy voice echoing across the lawn.  
.  
Visiting hours are over.

It’s just as well. The sky parts a moment later, letting loose a light, warm rain down to spatter on their arms and hair. 

“That’s Janice. She’s nicer than she sounds.”

“I’m sure,” Clarke says, standing and rounding the table between them. She pulls Lexa close--awkwardness be damned--and holds tight. Her stomach is sour and empty, but she swallows the feeling down and focuses on the smoky smell of Lexa’s hair and the rhythm of her precious breathing before letting go.

“Call soon?”

Lexa nods, but Clarke needs more than that, needs contact, so she reaches out for her hand and squeezes.

“I will Clarke,” Lexa says, her gaze steady as she squeezes back. “I promise.”

The walk back into the building is troubling and lonesome with Lexa at her back. She can’t help but turn around to catch one more glimpse of her. There’s smoke blowing from another cigarette up into the green leaves of the tree that Lexa’s made a temporary shelter from. Her back is turned, her shoulders are hunched, and it’s when Clarke sees her reach up to swipe her hand across her face that she regrets looking back at all.

+

Raven’s painfully quiet on the drive home. She does her level best at balancing the line between being a caring best friend and a rightfully pissed off wronged party. Maybe she’s giving Clarke enough time to absorb the conversation between her and her ex girlfriend; letting things soak in. But maybe not. Maybe Raven doesn’t care. Either way it’s not Clarke that breaks the silence on that rainy Saturday morning.

It’s no surprise. Raven’s always been the better person of the two of them.

“So how was it?”

Clarke pretends to be absorbed in tracking the raindrops down her windshield. The wipers push across the glass in an echo of her heartbeat. 

“Hm?”

“Hm?” Raven mocks. “The visit, Clarke. How did it go?”

“It was good,” she responds, pulling a smile across her lips. “She’s got her appetite back so I think she’s over the worst of it. Withdrawal wise, anyway.”

“Really?” Raven’s brow furrows. 

Clarke nods; she feels tears fill her eyes again and swallows before speaking.

“Yeah, I think she’s settled in well. She said the food is good at least, and you know that’s half the battle with her.”

Though she tries, there’s no hiding the tremor in her voice, how thick her throat sounds. She made an effort to conceal it all, but it must be more obvious than she thought, because Raven sighs as she turns the wheel to take an exit. 

“Jesus, Clarke, just tell me what happened. Really.”

“You don’t need to do this, Raven. I can’t ask you to, not after everything.

“I don’t give a shit about what I need to do Griffin, I’m asking you because I want to. Woman to woman--how is she?”

Clarke bites her lip. Were it anyone else asking it’d be easy to tell them to fuck off, mind their own business. People are too nosy for their own good. Even the fact that Raven cares, is interested and concerned and has the slightest hint of anxiety in her expression, doesn’t seal the deal for her. She doesn’t know how much of Lexa’s struggles to expose to prying eyes. How much is too much, and how much is tellingly vague.

“She’s not doing well.”

“Is she sick?”

Clarke sniffles. “No, not--not really. I mean she looks really pale and thin but I think it’s--she’s talking like she’s given up already. I didn’t know it was this bad. I didn’t know it was ever this bad. I thought we knew each other, but the way she--she was like an entirely different person. I don’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. I sat there like an idiot for most of the time--I just didn’t know what to say.”

“No offense, Clarke, but this isn’t something that’s gonna magically disappear with a couple rounds of Kumbaya and an ‘I love you’. No matter what you say, Lexa’s fucked up. Addicted in the worst way to two of the hardest substances known to man.”

Clarke grips her hair between her fist and breathes deep. “I know that.”

“Then you know that being there was probably more than enough for her.”

“I don’t know if she even wanted to see me,” Clarke says, shaking her head. “I just showed up.”

Raven snorts. “It’ll be a cold day in hell when Lexa Daley doesn’t want to see you, Clarke. Okay? She’s right where she needs to be. It’s barely been a month since she’s had anything stronger than nicotine in her system, alright? Of course she feels like shit. She’s got nowhere to run from the fucked up things she’s done and nothing to drown them with. Trust me.”

Clarke opens her mouth to--say sorry for dragging over old wounds? Make nice for the new ones her ex-girlfriend inflicted? She doesn’t know, but Raven doesn’t give her the chance. 

“Yeah, sole prodigal child of the neighborhood drunk here? This aint exactly my first rodeo.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, nodding and wiping her eyes. She abruptly feels stupid for feeling stupid in front of Raven and changes the subject. “Yeah, well how was Dr. Madison, anyway?”

Raven grins. “About as stodgy as ever. But I figure if I keep kicking ass the way I have been, keep serving looks in the face of unspeakable adversity, I’ll have a better chance of him letting me work the stick loose from his ass.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

“Uh, my sparkling wit and the power of tender loving care, obviously. Or you know, if that fails: a blowjob.”

Clarke laughs out loud, feeling light for the first time in days. 

“Gross, Raven, he’s like eighty years old.”

“I’ll have you know that James is a striking fifty six. He’s a silver fox.”

“And what did silver fox actually say about your hip this week?” Clarke questions. “I mean when he wasn’t turning down your advances that are probably way past the border of sexual harassment?”

Raven’s smile dims without changing much at all. She shrugs.

“It was the same-old same-old. My injury was ugly so the healing and recovery is even uglier, especially after irritating it, blah blah blah. He said within a couple months, if I keep progressing the way I have been, I’ll be able to stand up to shower again.”

It’s more than a little sobering. “That’s great, Raven.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, pulling the van along Clarke’s residential. “Don’t get me wrong, bubble baths are great. But they get old when they’re your only option.”

“I believe it.”

Fact of the matter is, Clarke’s kind of been a shit friend lately. A shit everything, really; cousin, student, chef, employee, and yes, even daughter. The rest of those she can make excuses for (it’s not as though she’s without her reasons), but Raven at the very least deserves better.   
“If there’s ever anything I can do, Raven…”

The idea’s clearly about to be brushed off, most likely with some kind of crude joke. Then Raven lifts her eyebrows, her expression settling into one that has only ever foretold trouble.

“Feel like babysitting?” she asks with a grin, barreling on when Clarke’s eyes widen. “I haven’t seen much of Anya lately, what with her sister losing her shit and the little guy fighting off a nasty stomach flu. It’s got me seriously considering giving hummers to my physical therapist, Clarke; a woman has needs. Do you know how long it’s been without her mouth on my --”

“Raven,” Clarke says, trying to be stern while laughing. “Spare me the details, okay? I’m down for watching him. Are you thinking tonight or later this week?”

“Tonight, please. God better make it tonight, if he has any love left in his cold dead heart for me.”

Clarke smiles and shakes her head. 

“Just text Mama Bear for me to see if she’s cool with you taking the cub. I’m driving.”

“And tell her what?” Clarke asks while opening a message bubble in her phone. “I’m kidnapping her son?”

12:54: your not-a-girlfriend is pawning Nate off on me so you can take her out tonight if that’s okay with you.

“I don’t care how you tell her, Clarke, just let her know my shift ends at five and that she needs to bring her A-game.”

“...you haven’t asked Anya about this?”

Raven snorts. “No, I haven’t asked Anya. I never have to ask Anya. I offer Anya to get a piece of this and she does what any sane person would do. Trust me, she’ll be on it like white on rice.”

Clarke sighs and continues the text.

12:56: ill come by at 6:30, raven says to wear somethin nice

The response comes before the light on Clarke’s phone dims, and she furrows her brow.

“She just said ‘okay’.”

“Ha!” Raven crows. “A smart woman, what’d I tell you? All you need to do now is help me pick out something she’ll wanna tear off me.”

And Clarke’s not a big enough fool to argue with any of that.

+

‘Helping’ Raven has always been a straightforward process and this time is no different. She deliberates between two outfits for all of five minutes before choosing a dress that Anya had leant her some time ago. Clarke nods from the bed in approval and that’s the end of it. She knows her opinion in this matter is nigh irrelevant, she’s just there for moral support.

Nate’s dimply smile warms Clarke from head to toe when she arrives for duty. She’s never liked kids, never really longed for a brother or sister as an only child, but Nate is different. He was born when Clarke was barely out of childhood herself, during one of the most turbulent times in her young life. In the wake of all the grief around losing her father, Anya bringing another life into the world was painful in the way a wound is sore before it scabs and scars over. Nathan’s beauty, his newness, offered such promise and pure love in the face of unbearable devastation.

She’s never figured out how to thank another person for that. So instead, she babysits.

It’s 7:30 by the time the not-a-couple are ready to leave arm in arm. Anya’s always more reluctant than she lets on to separate from Nate. It’s not anxiety, Clarke thinks, but a simple hesitance to be apart from her favorite person in the world. She’s felt something similar once, and she can’t fault Anya for it or take it personally.

“If you need me, call me Clarke,” Anya tells her, before turning to Nate and glancing her hand down his cheek. “Be good, love.”

Raven crouches down in front of him to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Bye, Monster.”

They’re gone, and it’s quiet as Clarke stands beside Nate pretending to deliberate. She crosses her arms, taps her chin and looks at him.

“How do you feel about pillow forts?”

He lights up. 

Anya’s apartment is on the smaller side but her son is resourceful. When he and Clarke run into a structural dilemma involving an unsteady left flank, Nate sprints to his room down the hall and returns with an empty Lego box in tow. They prop it up on the arm of the futon and it offers enough height to stabilize the sheet draped over them onto the coffee table. Success.

Nate snuggles down next to her on the pile of blankets in the fort and tucks into his half of the peanut butter sandwich Clarke threw together. She may be training to become a fancy ass chef but there’s value in not messing with the classics. They sip chocolate milk as she sets up a movie on the TV, and Nate’s eyes are already drooping when he decides he has something to say.

“Clarke?”

“Yeah, Nate?”

“You saw Aunt Lexa today?”

Nate’s eyes don’t even stray away from the movie when she hacks on a bite of sandwich. It’s like he’s giving her the space to make a fool of herself. She clears her throat, reminds herself she’s technically the adult in this conversation.

“Who told you that?”

“Mama did,” he says. “She said that Aunt Lexa isn’t all by herself in the hospital, because you go and see her sometimes.”

Why it comes as such a shock, Clarke couldn’t say. Obviously Nate would notice Lexa’s absence, Anya’s anger. Naturally he’d ask questions, and Anya being Anya, she would answer them. 

Nate’s round little face is contemplative; not drawn enough to be sad but certainly not cheerful. Everything she’s wanted to avoid thinking about is settled firmly into his expression.

“I miss her.”

That one is easy at least. 

“She misses you too.”

“I wish she was home. Mama’s sad without her.”

“Yeah she is. It’s sad when the people we love are away from us, huh?”

“Did she say when she’s coming back?”

Clarke inhales as deeply was she can, wondering how on earth to proceed.   
“What did your Mama tell you, Nate? About why Aunt Lexa’s away?”

“She said that she’s sick and she went away to get better. And that she loves us very much, but it’s better that we’re apart. For now.”

Nate nods once, obviously having worked hard to remember his mother’s words. Clarke thinks for a second that will be all of it but--

“She’s all alone.” 

With that a noticeable pout begins curving his mouth down, and Clarke can’t resist any longer. She scoots closer to him to curve an arm around his back. The thick, straight hair on his head gives no resistance as she begins running a soothing hand through it, quietly searching for words. Clarke’s voice is as gentle as she can make it without being cloying.

“Nate, the stuff that makes Aunt Lexa sick doesn’t just hurt her. Sometimes it makes her hurt other people too. Not on purpose, she doesn’t want to do bad things, but it does make her different. Scary, even. Your mama’s trying to keep you safe.”

She can practically feel the argument stirring on his adorable scrunched up face, the flash of tightness in his shoulders.

“Ms. Cruz says that just because we make bad choices doesn’t mean we’re bad kids. I’m not afraid of Aunt Lexa.”

“Good, Nate. We all want to keep it that way. And it’s just for now, just until she gets better.”

“But how is she ever gonna get better with no love around her? No one to make her feel good even if she’s not?”

Clarke swallows the tears that seem to be on standby today. Hell, on most days.

“Well I go see her,” she offers. “I know I’m not you or your Mama, but I do bring Lexa all your love when I’m there.”

It’s not enough for him, she knows it. Nate won’t protest for more, he’s much too polite for that, but she can see it weighing heavy on his mind; the lack of real answers, of some kind of resolution. Clarke can empathize. All she wants is for someone to stop worrying themselves sick, so she throws up a prayer for Anya’s forgiveness and continues.

“And how about this, Nate? Your mom might not want you to see Aunt Lexa right now, but you could always write her a letter. Tell her how much you love her and miss her, maybe draw her a picture too.”

There’s a light in his sleepy eyes suddenly, and it soothes something unnamable in her.

“I like writing letters. Ms. Cruz made us learn our address.”

“That’s perfect, Nate,” Clarke says with a smile. “That way maybe Aunt Lexa may even write you one back.”

Nate beams, everything right in his world again. “You think?”

“Definitely. That’d be cool, right?”

“Yeah.”

She kisses his forehead and lets a tear or two fall down her cheeks. Nate doesn’t notice, once again wrapped up in the conflict onscreen between cartoon fish. She’s grateful for it. He dozes off next to her not long after that, and Clarke is alone on a Saturday night with only a slumbering five-year-old boy for companionship.

Not that she’s complaining. Clarke could do a lot worse for company. Now that Nate’s asleep though, her mind is once again left to its own devices. Running itself ragged down the same tired paths she’s grown familiar with these past few weeks—last few months if she’s being honest with herself. The thoughts race and bleed into each other, and she’s helpless to stop them. 

Lexa breaking her heart, fuck Lexa, Lexa alone, Lexa bone-thin and weary, Lexa desperate and sick on that shit, Lexa gray and cold with vomit dried down her chin—

Clarke shifts out of the blankets to stand, careful not to jostle Nate. She quit smoking after high school but she’s aching for a cigarette, a distraction, a balm for her agitated nerves.

Historically this mood has only ended in one of two ways: poor decision making when she’s lucky and personal catastrophe when she’s not.

Clarke does the only thing she knows she can do without breaking her newfound habit of relative sanity. She pulls her phone from her pocket and texts Wells, already knowing he’s busy with school even over break. But he’s always made time for her, just as she’s made time for him in the past. Maybe not enough time, recently, but the universe owes her and god help her, she hopes it forgives her for how she’s let down Wells.

“U up?”

“lol. always.”

“right”

“what’s up?”

“nothin much, doing my auntly duty and watching nate for the night. U”

“studying, naturally. Torts is a bitch. something on your mind?”

She pauses, unable to deal with just how well he knows her. It’s comforting sometimes but suffocating on nights like this.

“no… something on yours??”

“lol. okay, Clarke.”

“okay???”

“the past few months you’ve only contacted me when you’re drunk or crying. sometimes both. you only wanna talk to me when something’s wrong.”

Clarke’s stomach drops. She hates that it’s true. 

Wells picks up on the first ring.

**Author's Note:**

> dunno when i'll be updating this but the next few chapters are already written. everything's based on a (not so happy) true story, so peace and love <3


End file.
